


Instant Messaging VI: Two Dances

by TheSaddleman



Series: Instant Messaging [15]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 1920s New York, F/M, Friendship, Post-Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, Post-Hell Bent, Psychic Paper, Romance, unspoken thoughts, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 16:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8630719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSaddleman/pseuds/TheSaddleman
Summary: The Doctor finds himself with a mystery: Why is his psychic paper saying "I love you"? In fact, why is his psychic paper sending him messages in the first place? He doesn't remember it doing that before...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written in honour of the first anniversary of "Hell Bent".
> 
> As the sixth in the series of Instant Messaging, I've tried to make the story as stand-alone as possible but there are references here that might make more sense to those who have read the first five stories.

_I love you._

The Doctor stared at his psychic paper, ensconced in the small faux-leather folder it shared with his Libraria Galactica card.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

He’d felt the wallet vibrate in his pocket, which was an odd sensation. He vaguely remembered trying to figure out a way to utilize the psychic paper as some sort of “instant messaging” service; a back-up for when the phone or other communications devices on the TARDIS were disabled. He’d been inspired by his wife, River Song, who had used the psychic paper to contact him not long before she died. Unfortunately, she’d gotten the wrong number—literally—and the message had gone to his tenth self rather than his eleventh self, which was the one who’d actually married her.

He remembered vaguely discussing the idea with … someone … later, but he must have gotten distracted and forgot. He found himself being distracted more and more often these days. Not to mention forgetful as he couldn’t recall ever purchasing a closet full of vintage Burberry clothes. They weren’t really River’s style, or Amy’s. Romana’s? Yes, definitely her style, but all her stuff was lost long ago. He’d claimed to Adric that he needed to jettison her room in order to save the TARDIS during an encounter with the Master not long before one of his early regenerations. In truth, he’d been upset that she’d left him. He’d gotten petty.

The Doctor looked back down at the psychic paper where the sudden and mysterious message of endearment was already starting to fade. Before it could, another message appeared.

_Why didn’t I tell you_

...and then another, completing the thought...

_when I had the chance?_

_I’ll tell you why,_ the paper said, seemingly carrying on its own one-sided conversation.

_I made a promise._

_I told Danny I never would say it again._

_I kept my promise._

_But I wish I’d told you._

_Now it’s too late._

The Doctor tried to calm himself. Something about the name Danny rang a small bell, but then he often got déjà vu—sometimes in reverse—and he couldn’t be expected to remember every Danny he’d met through time and space. He vaguely recalled a maths teacher who doubled as a physical education instructor, though he couldn’t place where. 

He took a deep breath and reached out with his mind, trying to touch—mentally—whomever was transmitting. The Doctor wondered if he, she or they were even aware they were transmitting. For some reason, the words “psychic butt-dialling” entered his mind, but the Doctor didn’t laugh at the ridiculous turn of phrase; it wasn’t something that would have occurred to him. Someone else must have mentioned it. Maybe Donna?

The challenge of reaching out mentally was that the Doctor had to be pretty clear as to _who_ he was trying to communicate with. But he was drawing a blank and, unless this individual uttered a name, he was probably stuck. But he tried anyway. He felt his mind reach out through the Vortex towards the “signal” or whatever it was that was transmitting the words to the psychic paper.

For a moment, despite the odds stacked against him, the Doctor thought he’d succeeded. Thought he felt the faint brush of someone else’s mind. He shivered slightly; the sensation was surprisingly pleasurable. As if this second mind felt comfortable, somehow. Like a warm sweater. For half a second, the Doctor felt the sensation of two petite but strong arms wrapping around his torso from behind and holding him tight. He automatically reached over with his left hand to pat the non-existent presence. And then, as quick as that, the feeling was gone and the Doctor’s mind snapped back into the TARDIS. Something was blocking him from communicating with this person.

But he knew one thing.

It was a woman.

***

The paper stayed blank for the next three weeks. The Doctor had given up looking at it for any more messages, and went back to utilizing it for the reasons he first bought it from Dorium Moldovar several lifetimes before—to bluff his way into garrisons of authority. 

Except for the day he produced it during a visit to UNIT in the late 1970s. Accustomed to working with his earlier selves, and with the Brigadier retired (or, perhaps more accurately, on sabbatical), Warrant Officer Benton was not convinced of the Doctor’s revised identity.

“Okay, fine,” the Doctor said as he produced his psychic paper. 

Benton looked at it and sniggered. “I love you too, sir.”

“What?”

The Doctor glared at the psychic paper. Instead of displaying his UNIT “all-access” card, there were those three damn words again.

_I love you._

“Oh for God’s sake,” the Doctor uttered. He turned to Benton. “The Christmas Party will have to wait. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Yes, dear,” Benton chortled as the Doctor, red-faced, stalked back to his TARDIS.

He looked down occasionally as he walked, to see if the message changed. This time, the words “ _I love you_ ” faded to white with no follow-up.

“Come on. Who are you? Why are you doing-”

 _Dammit, no, I’m not giving up._ The paper came to life again, interrupting the Doctor.

_I know there are more important things._

_But I want to see him again._

_One more time, before..._

_…you know._

_And you saw the messages as clearly as I did._

_He needs me._

The Doctor arched an eyebrow. He didn’t miss the change of perspective; she was no longer talking to “him,” but to somebody else. He could only follow half the conversation, though. He wondered what message she was talking about.

_If you don’t like it, you can shove off!_

_I mean it!_

_You think you know everything there is about time and space._

_I’m not saying I don’t know everything either._

_It was a massive %^$#-up on my part that got me into this mess._

“So this has a swear filter now, does it,” the Doctor asked himself. The previous set of psychic paper he carried caused a bit of embarrassment at 3W when it showed a torrent of (admittedly well-deserved) abuse instead of fake credentials. All told, given the fact he’d probably have to take till his forty-seventh incarnation before living down the ribbing Benton and all of UNIT would be giving him now, he’d have preferred the paper had taken the salty, rather than the romantic route.

_And now I can’t even stop dreaming about him._

_Yes, I do sleep._

_Well, when you’re not looking._

The Doctor felt he was eavesdropping on a conversation that was none of his business, and one with a heavy dose of déjà vu, at that. 

_What was that?_

“What was what?” the Doctor found himself asking aloud.

_Check the scanner. Quickly._

A scanner? So whoever this was, she was on some sort of a ship, the Doctor thought.

For the next few minutes, the Doctor watched as line after line of instructions appeared on the psychic paper as Susan (a name the Doctor arbitrarily—okay, not so arbitrarily—assigned as a placeholder for his mysterious correspondent) spoke to her unknown compatriot(s). He wasn’t sure if she was the captain of the vessel as she appended “ _please_ ” to the end of most of her orders and a couple of times amended her instructions with, “ _Yeah, I like that idea better,_ ” suggesting someone was giving her ideas. Not overly experienced then.

 _Ready to materialize_ , the paper read.

“Material…is that a TARDIS?” the Doctor said, suddenly much more interested in the minutiae.

_No, you stay here._

_I’m serious._

_You can still be killed. I can’t._

_Let me check things out first._

The Doctor made a small sound as he heard this. He ran through his mental Rolodex of individuals who were unable to die and came up with two names. There was Ashildr, a Viking girl he’d transformed into an immortal when he was on an adventure with … somebody … but she was not indestructible. The Doctor had lost track of her whereabouts a long time ago … another case of him becoming distracted … but he dismissed her from contention as it was doubtful she’d be able to upgrade herself to indestructibility. The other option was Jack Harkness, but he’d definitely felt a female presence when he’d reached out and while Jack was diversity personified, the ghostly arms he’d felt around him definitely weren’t Jack’s.

_Hello! I’m the Teacher._

_Are you in charge?_

The Doctor paused for a moment as it registered that the word Teacher had been capitalized. It was being treated as a name. Like the Corsair or the Master or … the Doctor.

His hearts started to pound. Could this be another Time Lord? He knew of course where to find Gallifrey now, even though the details of how exactly he knew had started to fade from his memory … something involving the Cloisters … so he knew there was no longer any shortage of Time Lords, but to connect to another Time Lord, one other than Missy, this was very exciting.

He only hoped she was one of the good ones. And that he wasn’t hearing the last thoughts of one of the many Time Lords that had been cannibalized by the sentient-but-insane planetoid called House before he and the TARDIS herself had put a stop to it.

_What is the name of this place?_

_I’m not from around here._

_I know that’s kind of obvious._

_Just the two arms._

_Care to show me around?_

***

And so it went for the next few hours. The Doctor recognized a benign “first contact” scenario when he saw one. He was glad; Susan, or whoever she was—he decided not to start calling her “the Teacher”—seemed to have the situation well in hand, though he didn’t fail to notice that she’d left her colleague benched back in her TARDIS. But she sounded like she was making friends. The Doctor allowed himself to occupy his time working on refining his sonic screwdriver, looking over at the paper occasionally to see if Susan was still doling out pleasantries. Eventually, he read her farewells to her newfound friends.

_Back to the TARDIS._

“I knew it! You’re a Time Lord. You have to be,” the Doctor said, punching the air. There was also another possibility, but the Doctor found himself unable to form that particular thought.

_I wish he was here._

“Who, your lover boy? Dan, Dan the Soldier Man?” The Doctor said, not unkindly. Now where did _that_ come from? How did he even know Danny was a soldier? Didn’t sound like a Gallifreyan name, but then again most of the women he considered “paramours” over his long lifetime weren’t from Gallifrey, either. So he should talk. 

_This isn’t fun anymore._

_I miss him._

The Doctor noticed that the last sentence took far longer to fade from the paper. As if she was repeating it over and over in her head. In fact it stayed on the paper until Susan, evidently, returned to her TARDIS.

 _I’m fine._ Susan was clearly talking to her colleague again.

 _Nothing special._

_No sign of any trouble._

_Bit boring, really._

_One of them_

_tried to hit on me, though._

“Remember your tae-kwon-do!” the Doctor called out. And then immediately stopped himself. “Why the hell did I just say that?”

_That’s great news!_

“Nice to hear it,” the Doctor said. “Care to enlighten us eavesdroppers?”

_What do you mean, not great news?_

“Uh, oh.”

_But it will only be for a few minutes._

_They can’t catch up to us that fast._

“Who can’t catch up to you?”

_I don’t care. We’re going to-_

_Let go of my arm._

_Don’t try to stop me._

_I got another message from him this morning._

_He needs me._

_Please. Let me go._

She was being restrained, the Doctor realized.

But why? The psychic paper offered no clue, because the final message faded and nothing replaced it.

“Susan?” 

***

For a month, the Doctor tried and failed again and again to restore the link to the mysterious woman at the other end of the psychic paper link. Despairing of ever hearing from her again, but hopeful that she was okay, despite the implied violence of the last message, the Doctor put his psychic paper away and forgot about it. He became involved with new adventures. A new companion. Life went on.

***

One day, years after the psychic paper had last sent him messages from “Susan,” the Doctor was sitting on a bench in 1920s Central Park, enjoying the tableau of Manhattan in the Jazz Age, when he felt a vaguely familiar vibrating sensation in his breast pocket. Retrieving his psychic paper, the Doctor looked down.

_There he is._

_No, he can’t see me._

_I’m being careful._

_He hasn’t changed a bit._

_He’s still wearing the coat I left him._

The Doctor surreptitiously looked around. He couldn’t see any indication of anyone watching him. But then Central Park was a hive of activity. Any one of these people could have been her. Assuming she was anywhere near him. She could have been messaging from a thousand years in the past for all he knew.

_To hell with this._

_I want to go to him._

_I know it’s dangerous._

“No, it’s not,” the Doctor said, as if his words might somehow broadcast over the paper back to the sender. “Please, I’d love to meet you, Susan, or whoever you are.”

_I promise this will be the last time._

_I know I need to go back soon._

_But not before I see him._

_They can’t do anything to me._

_Not anymore._

The Doctor looked around, a bit more obviously this time. Finally, he caught sight of a petite, dark-haired woman in a beaded period dress, looking at him rather awkwardly. For a moment, the Doctor had a frustratingly brief flash of memory. A passenger car on a train. Two glasses of wine. A dress. Beautiful brown eyes.

The woman smiled. 

“Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked.

The Doctor, suddenly remembering the decorum of the 1920s, stood up and motioned for the young woman to take a seat, all the while running her face through his mind, trying to remember if he’d met or seen her before. He sat down next to her.

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor said. “I feel like I know you, but … I can’t remember. Do I know you?”

The woman smiled sadly at the Doctor, then reached into the small purse she carried and withdrew a small folder, which she flipped open, revealing a white sheet of paper.

The Doctor still held his psychic paper in his hand. He looked down at it, in its identical folder.

“We used to send little messages to each other this way,” the woman said, her voice betraying her Lancashire origins. “And I guess we still do.”

“I don’t understand,” the Doctor lied. He wasn’t about to tell this mysterious person everything yet. Let her indicate the breadth of her knowledge on the subject.

“You’ve been sending me messages, Doctor,” she said. “Beautiful messages. But I realized early on that you weren’t aware that you were sending them. How could you be? You’d forgotten me. And I tried to send messages back to you, but … I don’t think we’re simpatico anymore.” She frowned.

“What sort of messages?”

“Things I wish you’d said when we were together.”

“We were together? What about Danny?”

The woman’s eyes widened. “How do you know about him?”

The Doctor gestured with his psychic paper. “I’ve been receiving … thoughts … from you for a long time.”

The woman’s eyes softened as she reached out and took the Doctor’s hand. “I guess we’re still simpatico, after all,” she whispered.

“Just slightly out of sync,” the Doctor said as the woman looked away. He realized, at long last, who this had to be. Truth be told, he’d suspected all along. Who else could it be. Her name, most certainly, was not Susan. “You’re Clara, aren’t you?”

She smiled back. “I haven’t used that name for a long time. My name is the Teacher now. But, yes, Doctor, I’m Clara.”

The Doctor looked at this young woman, so full of life—even though he knew her heart hadn’t beat in likely many years—and tried to remember anything beyond the broadest strokes of their adventures together. His voice failed him as he concentrated.

The Teacher seemed to notice this. “Don’t try too hard. It’s the neuroblock. You can’t remember me or how you felt about me. You can’t and you shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not. The laws of time forbid it.”

“And yet you’re here,” the Doctor said.

“Laws can be bent. You know that,” the Teacher said. “And I wanted to see you again. The universe owes us this.”

“I gave up trying to cash in IOUs from the universe a long time ago,” the Doctor chuckled. He looked around. “It’s a beautiful day. Fancy a walk?” He stood up and offered the Teacher his arm, which she took with a smile.

“It would be my pleasure,” she said.

“I don’t suppose it would do any good for me to ask you to help fill in some of the blanks in my memory?” the Doctor said as the couple began meandering down the path.

The Teacher looked up at the Time Lord. “Tell you what, Doctor. Take me dancing first. I always wanted to dance with you properly and we never had the chance before. I’ll trade you: one dance for one memory.”

“Such as what you said to me in the Cloisters?”

The Teacher snuggled against the Doctor’s arm, as if had only been a few days since she’d last been with him and not centuries. She smiled.

“That memory, my friend, will cost you _two_ dances.”

**Author's Note:**

> At the moment I'm anticipating this will be the last of my "Instant Messaging" stories for now, though I could come back to it later. Thanks to everyone for the great response.


End file.
